Chapter 6
Holly
A real snowstorm is a lot wetter than I imagined. It’s not that I’ve never been in a snowstorm before. I’ve been in plenty of them. Well, I’ve been on plenty of stages where there was snow. But this is real, and it’s a lot colder and wetter than I imagined.
Even with the thick, flannel shirt and work coat Hunter gave me to wear, the cold is still breathtaking. I trudge behind him, trying to walk in his footprints.
He has an axe casually slung over his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure he’s whistling Christmas carols under his breath as he goes.
“Are you sure this isn’t dangerous?” I ask. I barely suppress the urge to point out that I could break an ankle in this weather. That’s when I realize I’m not on set. It doesn’t really matter if I break an ankle here. Production won’t be halted, and scenes won’t have to be rewritten.
“Don’t you worry, darling.” He stops and gestures at the abundance of trees around us. “I have lots of experience with big wood.”
“Well, then what am I here for?” I grump and wrap my arms around myself.
He answers as if it should be obvious, “Your job is to pick the tree.”
“Does size matter?” I can’t resist teasing him. There’s something about being with Hunter. He’s easy to be around. I don’t feel the need to constantly edit and obsess over every little thing I say or think.
He smirks. “It always matters. You want just the right amount of wood.”
I tap my chin and pretend to be thinking. “Then we need to start with girth. I want a nice thick piece of wood.”
“Got plenty of that here.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m pretty sure his voice just got deeper, huskier.
My stomach flutters as I think about what he’d sound like if he were growling filthy things into my ear. “Not only does it have to be thick. It also has to be big and firm.”
He nods as if we’re discussing something entirely serious. “Like I said, lady’s choice.”
I reach out and rub my gloved hand along the bark of one tree. “The first thing I want to do is test for hardness.”
The groan he makes in the back of his throat lets me know that he is just as aroused by our wordplay as I am.
I tap the tree trunk lightly. “It’s this one I want.”
He grunts. “Once you’ve made that decision, you can’t take it back. This tree will always belong to you.”
I drop my hand and my gaze. I can’t make any promises to either of us right now. That’s a sure way to break both of our hearts.
He growls then swings the axe against the tree. “Too bad. He would have given you everything.”
After that, he chops at the tree like he has a personal vendetta against it. Blow by unflinching blow, he slowly weakens the trunk. He pauses only once and that’s to peel off layers of his clothing so he can move freely.
I watch his tanned muscles tense and strain as he heaves the axe. Sweat rolls down his furry chest, and I have an overwhelming urge to lick it away, to be his and only his. He said he would always belong to me. Would he whisper that as he panted above me, taking my body hard and fast?
When he finishes his work, he reaches for the pack he set on the ground and pulls out a long cord. It’s then I realize we didn’t bring a way to carry back the tree.
“Should I go get your truck?” I ask, even though I have no experience driving in the snow other than yesterday’s brief experience. Still, if I can get the truck safely here, we can load it in the bed together.
He frowns, his skin glistening in the early afternoon sun. “Why would we need that?”
“It just seems like a lot for the two of us to manage,” I mumble, already not looking forward to the trek back to his cabin while carrying half a freakin’ tree. This man is nuts.
He gets to his feet and reaches for the ropes he’s bound on the branches with ease. He hefts the broad tree over his shoulder without looking the least bit winded. So unfair.
In this moment, I’m envious of a tree because I want to be slung over his shoulder. I want to be carried around like that. Would he rest his hand on my bottom, cupping me there and telling me to stay still while he carried me?
I’ll never know the answer because he just…starts walking. Like he isn’t carrying a tree on his back.
I follow behind him not to admire the way his blue jeans mold so perfectly to his ass. No, I’m here for safety reasons. It’s very important that there’s a scout to protect his back from raccoons and other small-but-not-too-scary creatures that might attack him.
When we get back to his cabin, he sets it in place. He fusses over getting it in front of the windows, like he wants to make sure it can still see the beautiful forest we’ve taken it from. He’s so rugged, so strong.
“What made you decide to live out here?” I finally ask.
“I enjoy the peace and quiet. During the summer months, I hike in the forest. I take a recorder with me, and I dictate chapters of my books. I can stay out there for hours, just talking to the clouds while my boys roam around.”
I think of his bookshelves, of the many books with his name on them. “You’ve written a lot of stories.”
“It’s easy when you believe in what you’re writing,” he answers. He’s measuring out water and some type of nutrient package that claims to keep Christmas trees fresh longer.
“And what is it you believe?”
“In true love, in finding someone that’s worth fighting for and protecting. Don’t you believe the same?” He gets the tree settled and steps back to admire his work.
I shake my head. “We’re not in totally different industries.”
I blush when he looks at me. “I don’t mean that I’m a writer, just that I sell stories, too. Love stories, but...I don’t believe in what I’m selling.”
He stares at me for a long time. “Then maybe, stop doing that.”
Hunter
“I have a confession to make,” Holly says as she digs around in a Christmas box. She’s bent over at the waist, giving me a great view of her ass. After we got the tree set up, she changed into another of my flannel shirts.
It’s long on her, more like a dress, but a mini dress because it keeps flipping up at the end. It’s doing something for me every time I catch a peek at those black cheeky panties. I can’t wait until the day she lets me put my hands all over her.
She got really quiet earlier when I told her to stop doing what makes her unhappy. It almost seemed like she didn’t even realize that was an option.
“What’s your confession?” I finally manage to ask, pulling my attention back to our conversation. I like talking with her. For all of the money she comes from, she isn’t stuck up like I expected. If anything, she just seems…lonely. Maybe that’s why I keep feeling drawn to her.
“I’m not much of a Christmas fan,” she admits, and she straightens up, catching my eye.
I let my gaze travel over her body. “Your previous outfit would suggest otherwise.”
She puts a hand on her hip, giving me a half amused smile. Fuck, what’s it going to be like when I can earn those half amused smiles from her every day for the rest of my life?
She says, “I was on my way to some big charity event. My mom is, well, she’s kind of obsessed with Christmas.”
“And you’re not?” I wait but she’s quiet. “There’s nobody here but me.”
“Well, I just don’t love it the way she does.” She pulls out a string of Christmas lights. They’re the big, colorful kind that twinkle when you put them on setting three.
I take them from her and plug them into the socket, inspecting the strand for broken or burned out bulbs. “So tell her that.”
“I can’t. I’m the oldest daughter.”
I look up from my inspection. Maybe it’s one of those things that I don’t understand since I’m a triplet.
She sighs like I should understand this without explanation. “I always do what everyone else wants.”
“Sounds like a perfect way to be miserable.” I twist a burned out bulb free and replace it with a matching red one.
“You don’t understand my mom,” she answers. “My dad died when my sister and I were young, and the family business was all she had left of him. If I let go of it, she’s going to think I’ve forgotten about him.”
“I don’t know your mom. But I know that I’d never want a kid of mine to feel like they had to paste on a smile around me. I mean, that’s not really being authentic.”
She’s quiet for a moment then she finally admits in small voice, “Sometimes parents don’t want you to be authentic. They want you to smile in all the right places and make them look good.”
I frown and ask, “Who said that was your job?”
She blinks.
“You don’t have to be the happiness coordinator forever. Maybe it’s better that you resign from the job and find something that makes you happy.”
I watch as the realization dawns on her face and my heart twists. I don’t think anyone has ever told my girl that she doesn’t have to be what everyone else wants.
Fuck. When she is finally mine, I’ll make sure she knows that I never expect anything from her. I never want her to be anything other than exactly what she is–adored, loved, perfect.
“I could do that?” she asks in a quiet whisper.
I nod.
“It can’t be that simple,” she murmurs, but I can tell from the way she says it that the idea is taking root.
“Just think about it,” I answer as I pass her the strand of lights now that I’ve fixed the bulbs.
We wrap several strands of glowing lights around the tree until it’s practically glowing. Every time our hands accidentally brush, she looks away from me.
Her stomach finally growls just as we finish with the lights.
“It’s time to eat,” I tell her even though she reaches for a box of Christmas decorations. For someone who says she hates the holiday, she’s good at decorating for it.
“Good idea,” she says and sets the box down again. She pads into the kitchen like she owns it. I follow behind, loving the sight of her in my space. I can’t wait until she moves in and decorates the place just the way she likes.
If she’ll be mine, I’ll be the happiest man in the world. I’ll let her do whatever she wants with the cabin. It’ll be hers in every way, just like my heart is hers.
I can’t be thinking about these mushy things, or I’ll go and tell her all my feelings. She made it clear earlier when we were cutting down the tree that she isn’t entirely open to feelings right now, but there’s still a lot I can do to convince her.
She sets the oven, and I reach for my phone, swiping the app for my glucose monitor. I’m always checking it throughout the day.
“Who are you texting? I thought the towers were down.”
I have to hide a grin at the note of jealousy in her tone. I hold up my phone to show her the screen. I don’t ever want her thinking she has anyone to be jealous of. She’s it for me, body and soul. “I was checking my blood sugar level.”
Her cheeks go pink. It’s my favorite color on her, I’ve decided. “Oh, sorry. That’s like diabetes, right?”
I nod, not used to talking about this with most people. While it consumes a fair amount of my day just trying to stay alive, it’s also one of those things I don’t mention because I don’t want to be treated differently. “Yep, I’m a diabetic.”
She pulls several big pieces of pizza out of the container and slides them onto a pan. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It can be. I’ve got to watch my numbers,” I admit, studying her face and trying to gauge her reaction.
She’s quiet, and I realize that she’s going to learn about this eventually. After all, if I plan to have a big family with her, she’ll need to know about my health.
“We can talk about it,” I tell her.
She nods and thinks for a long moment. “How does, I mean, I’ve heard about it, but like, what is it?”
“Your body converts the food you eat to energy by using insulin. My pancreas, which is the organ that makes insulin, stopped doing its job. I have a pump under my skin that gives me insulin, but it’s not perfect or an exact science. There are a lot of days that are just…rough.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry,” she murmurs, genuine sympathy in her expression.
I shrug. It’s too much information, but well, there’s a genetic risk.
Since we’re going to have babies together, she’ll need to understand these things.
“There are two main types. Type 1 diabetics have stopped producing any insulin. Type 2 diabetics can still produce some insulin. There are other kinds, but they tend to be rare.”
She slides the leftover pizza into the oven and faces me. “How did you find out you had it?”
“I joined the military with my brother, Ford. I’d been feeling weird for a few weeks before that.
I tried to push through, and then I got violently ill.
Most doctors probably would have brushed it off as the flu or some type of food poisoning, but I was lucky.
A medic understood that the scent of my fruity breath meant that my blood sugar was dangerously high. He saved my life.”
“I’m glad he was there for you,” she says, and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Her touch soothes me and grounds me. “Unfortunately, that was the end of my career. It’s hard to get approval to stay in the military for certain medical conditions.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be. My life turned out pretty good. I have a career I enjoy and a beautiful cabin.”
I cut myself off before I can tell her that I also have a beautiful future wife who’s standing right here beside me.
The timer on the oven dings, signaling that the pizza has reheated.
She bends over to grab it, and when she straightens, she catches me staring. She tries to tug the shirt she’s wearing lower to cover her gorgeous ass.
“Should have chosen a longer one,” she murmurs.
I wrap my fingers around her wrist. “It’s perfect.”